Page 10 of The Art of Dying

I turned to him and smiled. “I appreciate that.” I lifted my chin and gulped the rest of the beer and stood. “I’d better go.”

He stood, too, then walked over to the door. “Can I walk you home? Just to give me some peace.”

“Sure,” I said, walking across the porch and down the steps. I stopped and turned around when I didn’t hear him follow. He was standing at the door, stunned. “You comin’?”

“I thought I heard you say yes.”

“I did.”

He blinked, still hesitating.

I nodded toward my house. “Well? C’mon.”

He shut the door and let the screen door slam behind him, jogging down the steps and standing next to me. “Thank you.”

We walked next to each other, slow and in silence until we reached my back door.

He nodded to it. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“What?”

“I used to play with the Looper kids when I was a kid. That door goes straight into the bedroom.”

Yeah, it’s kind of a weird setup in there overall. It’s bolt locked, though, and I’m always packing,” I said with a wink.

He frowned at the door. “Well, if there’s any trouble, don’t hesitate. Can I give you my number just in case?”

“Mrs. Simpson two doors down never sleeps. She knows everything that happens in this neighborhood. She’s probably watching us right now. And nothing has happened besides Cubby and his friends visiting your house since I moved in. I’m not that worried.”

“I’m on high alert after what went down last night, but that’s okay. There’s always 9-1-1.”

I left him alone, walked into the house and grabbed a Sharpie from my desk, then returned. Kitsch was turning around to leave but stopped.

“Give me your arm.”

He held it out to me, palm up.

I pushed up his sleeve and then pulled off the cap of the Sharpie, writing digits in my atrocious but girly font.

Kitsch scanned the black markings on his arm with a smile.

He blew on the ink for a few seconds before pulling down his sleeve. “I won’t call… unless you want me to.”

“You can call, Kitsch. Good night,” I said, going back inside.

“Night,” he said as I closed the door behind me.

“Lock that door,” he called from the backyard, thanking me when he heard a click.

I fell on my back onto my full-size bed, the old box springs squeaking as I bounced. I stared up at the ceiling, trying not to overthink the last hour or how gentle someone who appeared as intimidating as Kitsch could be.

I took a deep breath, pretending to be asleep until I actually was, hoping for a dreamless night.

chapter three.

Kitsch

“Call her, you pussy,” Sully said, punching my arm. “You know you want to. It’s been three days, that’s not too soon.”

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